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I am too old to be elderly. (I’m twenty-one, for the record, and so you know that the first sentence is true.)

So my hips should just stop hurting right the hell now, right? Since I’m too young for this kind of shenaniganery? One’s body is not supposed to rebel against one until at least middle-age, as I understand it; there is at least supposed to be the Great Cliff of Thirty over which we all fall eventually, mourning our youthful energy as it is dashed on the rocks below.

(Why am I more eloquent when I’m in pain?)

This was going to be a much more thoughtful post about…something nice, but that one will have to wait until later, as at the moment I am obeying my Southern heritage (such as it is) and doing alcohol to it, where “it” is both how much various bits of my body hate me right now for no reason and the gigantic pile of homework I don’t want to do. Yes, it’s Monday night. Yes, it’s only 6:30. Goe awaye.

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